What Is It to Be a Human Being?
As AI continues to evolve, it becomes increasingly vital that we transform human consciousness itself, so we can meet it as intentional stewards of an emerging world. The moment is real. The cost of remaining adrift or absent has never been higher.
What is needed to step into our humanness and divinity in the same breath?
Our personality is a disguise. Essence is what we really are, but the path from one to the other is conscious work. When personality is our master, we are living in rigid prisons and the limits are prescribed by societal norms. Only essence has genuine freedom.
As Anaïs Nin wrote, “Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.” Courage is required — to show up day in and day out and observe our thoughts, beliefs, actions, biases, upsets, and reactions, and bring love and kindness to these hurt places. The journey is long and treacherous. It requires grit and tests your faith until you surrender into complete trust.
And as the etymological meaning of courage is of the heart, we need to involve the heart and the body, not just the mind. We need three-centered awareness. Thought, feeling, and sensation must be brought into relationship. That calls for practice because we naturally lead with one of these centers.
As D.H. Lawrence wrote, “The human soul needs actual beauty even more than it needs bread.” Beauty is essential. We gravitate toward the aesthetically beautiful — spaces, places, people — and beauty summons love. To create beauty, we have to put effort and care into our environment, our souls, our food, our neighbors, our art, and much more. What we digest and produce is of utmost importance.
At the personality level, we see each other as victims or perpetrators. At the soul level, we are capable of pure, nonjudgmental, non-punitive love and self-responsibility. We seek to understand and heal through love.
Purity is not perceived as moral perfection but as a transparency of the soul. Nothing is hidden, forced, or twisted. We are able to reflect truth without distorting it.
Most human beings live far below their actual potential through the absence of genuine development. The Divine Individual has developed genuine will, genuine consciousness, genuine being, not as a spiritual achievement, but as the fulfillment of what a human being actually is when fully realized. In practice this means the capacity to choose freely rather than react automatically, to see clearly rather than through the fog of conditioning, and to act from one's deepest nature rather than from habit or fear.
To be a human being we have to be aware of what we are doing; be aware of others objectively; be aware of an open future; remember our true essence. It is a process, and it calls for patience and commitment. The guarantee is that there is an exit from every closed circle, from all captivity of the spirit.
Jesus himself reminded us: “I am the Door; if anyone enters by me, he will be saved, and will go in and out and find pasture.” (John 10:9)
To ground these reflections, I continue to work at these steps. I bring awareness to everything I do in daily life, especially in relationship to others. How I show up is my duty. I see the world as a mirror that reflects me, not from an egotistical perspective, but from a self-responsibility one. That practice naturally creates awareness of others and opens space for less blame and more love.
I regularly run into my attachment to outcomes, fantasies, and emotional yearnings, and diligently submit them to God. I keep an open hand to what the future holds. To remember my true essence, I stay close to my philosophy and its main tenets: the pursuit of the good, the true, and the beautiful.
It is worth mentioning that we have to learn to live in paradox: effort and surrender; will and grace; doing and being. These are not problems to solve, but tensions to hold consciously. Something else can enter when we do not collapse to one side, a third movement, subtle but real, that belongs to the soul. It does not erase the tension, but transforms it. It appears in the space we create through attention.
This is called the journey of the Hero and the Heroine for a reason. It tests your limits again and again, refining what is real. But once you truly taste it, there is no turning back into unconsciousness.
Love in a Different Language
I've never been "lovey-dovey." I am not naturally expressive or overflowing. For a long time, I wondered if that meant something was missing. The truth is my experience of care is not shallow. It's steady and watchful. Contained.
I don't always say the warm thing. I have been labeled cold and direct. I don't always show it in ways people easily recognize, but I notice. I reflect. I stay. I hold.
When did we decide that love must be visible to be real? That softness must be performed to count?
There's a kind of affection that lives beneath the surface. Not absent, not guarded. Just unadvertised.
Maybe the real question is: Can you recognize love when it doesn't look the way you expect?
Most people carry an unspoken template for what love should look like: warm tone, frequent affirmation, emotional openness, visible softness. When love shows up outside that template, it often gets missed.
Someone may show love through consistency, always there, not verbalizing much. Another through precision, remembering details, anticipating needs. Another through truth-telling, challenging instead of soothing.
If you're expecting warmth as expression, you might not register warmth as presence.
Love has more than one language. Not all of them are fluent in display.
I'm not learning how to perform warmth. I'm learning how to trust the form it already takes in me.
Fairness
Leave it to our places of employment to take us on downward spirals.
I left the university almost a year ago, and I still feel the aftereffects. One image, one subtle reminder, and I am right back in that familiar place, feeling unseen, undervalued, unrecognized. Of course, I know these moments act as mirrors. So I turn inward, almost instinctively now. Yet, some part of me still feels unseen, unrecognized, unappreciated.
I meet her there.
I give her all the love I can summon and gently hold her hand as I tell her: I see you. I value you. You are worthy. You are enough.
Peace comes. It always does.
And yet, something in me still wants to understand: What is fair anger, and what is simply a mirror? Can they coexist?
Originally, fairness was closer to beauty and harmony than to strict justice. Only later did it become tied to equality, impartiality, and ethical treatment. Embedded in the word is an older intuition: what is truly fair is not only just, it is also fitting, balanced, even beautiful.
If you pursue beauty as if your life depends on it, you begin to sense when something strays from it.
So what do we do in those moments? Do we rush in to correct the imbalance? Or do we run away from it as fast as we can?
My intuition says: neither. You return to yourself. By restoring balance within, you step out of both victimhood and escape. That, in itself, is a beautiful movement.
But another question remains: If fairness implies impartiality, how do we remain outwardly neutral while something churns within us? We restore peace internally. That is the only place we have real agency, how we show up for ourselves.
So when something arises and brings me back to that familiar feeling of powerlessness, I try to meet it differently. I name it: There is anger within me. (Not: I am angry.) This distinction matters. As long as I do not identify with the anger, I am already moving upward. Identification gives the feeling force. Yes, a part of me feels anger, but it is only a part. It is not the whole. That part does not need suppression. It needs recognition. It needs love. It needs beauty, and wherever there is beauty, love follows.
When I move through this process, something shifts. What once felt like a trigger becomes a return. A remembering.
And sometimes, I even feel gratitude. Not because everything that happened was fair in the worldly sense, but because everything can be met in a way that restores wholeness.
Is Love Always Here?
You know those moments when your whole body is triggered by someone’s obliviousness to your defensive, unloved parts?
You feel the fire rising.
You hear your voice rising, the accusations coming through.
You are both the Observer and the Observed, and yet you can’t stop mid-track or retract what is already escalating.
At this juncture, your best choice is to walk away and sit with that little girl who showed up hurt, and to love her dearly, despite her behavior and in spite of her tantrums.
Love is always present. Always in the background and in the foreground at the same time.
In these heated moments, she feels far and unavailable, but it is just a matter of softening the resistance and opening to even a sliver of her presence.
She needs very little:
a softening,
a deep breath,
a gentle invitation,
an exhale.
As soon as she steps in, even slightly, the light shifts.
The heart softens.
The charge begins to dissolve.
Love is always here. We simply return to her.
She is devoted.
She listens to our rhythms.
She respects our readiness.
Give to her.
Receive from her.
Love is always yours.
She never leaves, only waits for you to turn back.
Worry Me, Worry Me Not
I worry so much lately. I meditate, chant, pray, love myself, receive love, and still worry. It is much better than it used to be. I have explored many therapeutic modalities that have softened its arrival and presence, but she still visits me regularly. Through Family Constellations and my daughter, I recognized that it was ancestral. My grandmother carried the world on her shoulders- just like Atlas- always worried, anxious, bracing for disaster. I understand her origin and the path forward and still struggle to let her go once and for all.
The word worry carries the meaning of twisting and tearing, and of choking and strangling, and that’s exactly how I feel in her grip.
A couple of days ago, I kept telling a friend how calm I feel regardless of all the transitions and uncertainties I am moving through. I believed it and felt it in the moment, but I was tested by my son and another friend. They were all coming from a loving place, but they were inviting anxiety into my reality. I didn’t “bite” in the moment, but after several of these invitations, I broke down. She entered my body with a force. All my hope, determination, and perseverance evaporated. I felt delusional to trust so much in the unknown. The practicality of life was summoning me. It was asking me to bow and submit to the tangible reality. “I need money. I need a home. I need a regular paycheck. I need stability. These lofty dreams are realized only by the chosen. Slow and steady takes time and doesn’t pay the bills.” I was bombarded with these messages and called a friend to seek validation. Everything I knew about these states and how to deal with them, I no longer knew.
As the word carries in its definition, I woke up with a pinched nerve in my neck, acute pain in my recently strained arm muscle after an ice fall, and nerve tension traveling throughout my whole body. It was a bodily freeze. Negative states such as worry, fear, anxiety, or depression represent themselves in the muscles by contraction, weakness, and rigidity. I was a ball of nerves literally and metaphorically, and in that state I could only look for ways to relax and care for my body. Everything else was useless.
Paradoxically, negative states are less able to visit when we are in a state of relaxation. That’s why it is advised to practice relaxing daily by noticing the body and giving it the loving attention and care it needs.
Worry is a state of identification. It is thought mixed with negative imagination. The mind is driven by the emotional centre and is obscured. Worry drains us of our life force. There is no centre of gravity. Everything is in disorder. The emotional centre takes over the intellectual one which affects the moving centre, and our whole being is in disarray. Worrying is a mechanical reaction, and it only makes sense that it will affect the machine— it stops functioning properly.
Once there, how do we fix the machine? Simply, by being less of a machine day in and day out. Life will test us, and we can’t change it, but we can change our reaction to life. When a negative emotion arrives (for it will), we are invited not to identify with it and take it as true, and not to try to work on it only after it has fully formed. Freedom is not that worry disappears forever, but that it can arise without becoming the ruler of the house. The mind, heart, and body can breathe freely. That’s expansion!
Admittedly, it is easier said than done. I ask myself why regularly. The reason is that by letting go of worry, we let go of a whole system of “I”s that are organized around it.
We are a multitude of “I”s. Some collaborate with each other, and others have never met. Certain “I”s have built their entire identity around a particular form of suffering. The worrying “I” has organized itself completely around worry. It knows how to worry. It is competent at worrying. Worry is its home territory, its area of expertise, its reason for existing. When you are not worrying, that particular “I” has no function. It ceases to exist.
And “I”s, like all structures, resist their own dissolution.
The “I” that suffers from fear of failure has been with me for a long time. It knows the fear intimately. It knows exactly which thoughts to generate, which scenarios to construct, which memories to surface to keep the fear alive and vivid. It is extraordinarily skilled at its particular form of suffering.
And here is the uncomfortable truth: that “I” gets something from the suffering. Not pleasure in any ordinary sense but existence, identity, continuity. As long as we are worrying, the worrying “I” is real, present, powerful. The moment the worry dissolves, so does the “I” that is built around it.
The fear of not succeeding “I” calls up the self-doubt “I”, which activates the not-worthy “I”, which summons the what-will-people-think “I”, which reinforces the I-should-have-done-more “I”. They form a constellation, a self-sustaining ecosystem of suffering. Each one feeds the others. Pull on one thread and the whole web vibrates.
This is why willpower alone cannot dissolve these patterns. You cannot simply decide to stop worrying. The system is too coherent, too self-reinforcing, too skilled at regenerating itself.
The work is not suppression by pushing the suffering “I” down by force. That simply drives it underground where it operates invisibly.
The work is awareness. Seeing the “I” clearly, in the moment it arises. Recognizing: this is the worrying “I”. This is not me. This “I” has arrived and is currently running the show. I can observe it without being it. Without identifying with it.
And here is the grace in it: the observing “I” does not suffer in the same way. It can hold the worrying “I” with something closer to compassion than identification. It sees the worrying “I” as a frightened, competent, well-intentioned part of the system that genuinely believes it is protecting me because it is. The fear of not succeeding “I” arose originally as protection for me. It was trying to keep me safe from disappointment, from humiliation, from being seen and found wanting. It was doing its job.
The work is not to destroy it with contempt but to see it clearly enough that it loses its grip. To say to it gently, without drama, “I see you. I know what you are doing. And I am not going to let you run the whole house today.”
The paradox
If the suffering were purely unwanted, I would simply stop. The fact that something in me clings to it, returns to it, finds it strangely familiar and almost comfortable that is the “I” speaking. That is the system protecting itself.
My body this week — the tension, the nerves, the ball of suffering traveling through my limbs — is those “I”s made physical. The worrying “I” does not stay in the mind. It descends into the moving center. The constriction, the flexion, the weakness — this is what a system of “I”s built around fear looks like when it takes up residence in the body.
I woke up feeling I needed to write this post, partially to synthesize my learning but also to share. Upon reflection, I recognized that worry and trust cannot coexist. During my recent visit to Benburb Priory in Northern Ireland, I picked a prayer card with the image of Jesus emitting light from his heart. The words underneath his image say, “Jesus, I trust in you.” I keep it as a reminder visible on the living room table. While still in bed and pondering, the image returned to me. Shortly after, I got up, sat on the couch, and opened a book of prayers. I do this daily and randomly.
Today’s message was, “I am all around you, like a cocoon of Light. My presence with you is a promise, independent of your awareness of Me. Many things can block this awareness, but the major culprit is worry. My children tend to accept worry as an inescapable fact of life. However, worry is a form of unbelief; it is anathema to Me. Who is in charge of your life? If it is you, then you have good reason to worry. But if it is Me, then worry is both unnecessary and counterproductive. When you start to feel anxious about something, relinquish the situation to Me. Back off a bit, redirecting your focus to Me. I will either take care of the problem Myself or show you how to handle it. In this world you will have problems, but you need not lose sight of Me.” (Luke 12:22-31; John 16:33)
Today, I am learning not to fight worry, but to see it, soften, and trust beyond it.
Led by the Good, the True, and the Beautiful
I am sitting with the wisdom of the 1st Letter of the Major Arcana— the Magician. It all starts here: a consciousness without effort; the work that feels like play; the carrying of the easy burdens and the rendering of the heavy ones light.
“He who sees the beauty of that which he recognizes as true cannot fail to love it, and in loving it the element of constraint in the duty prescribed by the true will disappear: duty becomes a delight.”
I love Beauty! Beauty generates love- and it stretches beyond the physical. It is the spiritual, emotional, intellectual, and metaphysical one. There is another key element in the above quote: trueness.
The Magician warns and graces. The former is the path which leads to charlatanism. The latter is the path that leads to goodness, trueness, beauty.
As I see it, there are actually three paths:
The Charlatan’s trap: Most charlatans are not consciously lying. The trap is working from the surface rather than the depths, which is performing spiritual knowledge rather than embodying it. Offering what sounds true rather than what has been truly lived.
Some of the signs are needing to impress; claiming more certainty than we actually have; using spiritual language to elevate ourselves rather than serve others; performing wisdom rather than practicing it; acting from the desire for recognition rather than genuine care. The antidote to the charlatan’s trap is silence, humility, and genuine inner work continued in private. As long as what we offer publicly is the overflow of a genuine interior life and not the performance of one, we are on the Magician’s true path.
The Genius (the True Path): Works from a place that is larger than ourselves. The work flows through us. We are genuinely surprised by what emerges. There is a quality of receptivity. The concentration without effort means that the ego is not the source, only the instrument.
False Humility (the most subtle trap): It feels virtuous. It uses the language of smallness to avoid the genuine risk of showing up fully. It says, “Who am I to offer this?” as a way of staying safe. It is the ego protecting itself through apparent selflessness. I tackle this trap the most. My personality pulls me into my doubts and inadequacies right when I feel ready to release something into the world; I fall into this pit briefly. With time and practice, it gets softer- the descent and the return, but I have to be vigilant.
What I have learned is that we cannot resolve this tension once and for all. The line remains thin. The vigilance must remain alive within us. The contemplation practice is the work. If we live with the discomfort of not being entirely sure which side we are on at any given moment, we will almost certainly be closer to the genius than the fraud. The charlatan has stopped feeling it and is comfortable. The false humility has found its groove and settled in. The genius questions and digs deep. The depth is not a problem to be solved. It is the path itself.
Follow what you find beautiful. It knows where it is going.
The Open Hand
I picked up Meditations on the Tarot this afternoon. The letter of the Chariot found me — the appearance of triumph, the appearance of control. The Chariot carries both warning and grace simultaneously, and presses a question underneath the image of triumph: whose victory is this, and in whose name?
The temptation to mistake spiritual advancement for personal power, to act in one's own name rather than in service of something larger is the shadow the Chariot carries, and it is closer than we think.
A true mastership is acquired in solitude. The inner victory of the renunciation of desire because not grasping is what sets genuine transformation in motion. It is about becoming a vehicle for divine movement through the three sacred vows:
Poverty: freedom from attachment to results, detachment, kenosis.
I experienced it this morning. My mind was feverishly creating project after project, hungering for expression and some realization in the world. Then, I suddenly felt it in my body- the tightening, the mild anxiety sneaking in, the catching of my breath. The conditioned need for productivity and achievement was present. I was planning a retreat— beautiful, real, full of genuine vision. Something in me grew uneasy. Not because the vision was wrong but because the timing was forced. The knowing that I have to release it arrived. Not never, but definitely not now. The relief came when I let it go.
This is poverty in its esoteric meaning. Not deprivation. The open hand. The soul that holds its work lightly enough that grace can move through it.
I didn't lose the retreat. I returned it to its right time.
Chastity: integrity of attention- the refusal to scatter yourself across too many objects of desire.
Hearing my soul’s direction and not jumping into too many initiatives at once. Retreats, circles, outreach, book, Instagram — all pulling simultaneously. The body's quiet knowledge that scattered attention is a violation of something.
Chastity as inner fidelity. Not restriction but faithfulness to my own deepest direction. The soul that knows what is mine to do right now and protects that knowing.
The relief of simplicity is chastity recognizing itself.
Obedience: listening before acting- the contemplative's fundamental practice.
Ob-audire (latin) — to listen from underneath. Not obedience to an external authority but to the deeper current of what is actually being asked.
The willingness to be responsive to what is actually being asked of us rather than what our will, our fear, or our ambition is projecting onto the situation.
The fear pit visited three times today. Each time, something paused before reacting. Something listened underneath the fear and heard a different instruction than the fear was giving.
Before I acted, something in me listened. That listening was the vow.
Poverty says: “I hold the outcome lightly.”
Chastity says: “I give my deepest attention faithfully to what is mine to do.”
Obedience says: “I listen before I act.”
Any genuine transformation in the world and in ourselves requires all three.
To return to the image of the charioteer- there is no gripping of the reins. The movement forward is not conquest. It is responsiveness: the open hand, the faithful attention, the deep listening working together.
This is what genuine spiritual work looks like from the inside. Not triumphant. Not forceful. But moving — steadily, rootedly, in a direction that is not entirely our own choosing.
The chariot moves. But we are not driving it alone.
"Those who are humble have definitely seen and heard — they have had a mystical experience with God." — Valentin Tomberg
Where in your life right now are you gripping the reins? What would the open hand make possible?
Fully Human/Fully Divine
Sometimes, I feel upsets potently but don’t always realize what message they carry until I sit down and feel my feelings. I look into “the mirror” genuinely and recognize what is happening underneath the surface reaction.
Humans are powerful mirrors, especially the ones we care about most. I recently noticed that my love toward people appears to increase or decrease based on their behavior or state of being. My reactions are strongly tied to my historical traumas and hurts. When I mirrored that, I sensed that my love toward myself is also dependent on the way I show up.
I clearly love my Divine Self wholeheartedly, but show up with judgement toward my Human Self, and then I feel the split. My life oriented toward the Divine some time ago, and since then I have tried to live in truth, in love, in consciousness. Yet, my human personality still contains remnants of old emotional wounds, habitual reactions, fears, and conditional responses.
Somewhere along the way, the “spiritual judge” was born. An inner voice that whispers, “You should be beyond this.” It appears when anger or fear arise, jealousy shows up, or old wounds get triggered.
I felt it recently. Someone I love was present with me, and something small, a tone, a look, a barely-there signal, triggered an old story. Within moments I was edgy, snappy, unreachable. I couldn't find love for them, and I didn't like myself much either. The spiritual judge arrived immediately: "You should be beyond this by now." And underneath that — shame. A feeling of being dirty, unkind, small. It wasn't until I sat quietly the next morning that I could see what had actually happened. The trigger had nothing to do with them. It was history speaking. And the harshness I felt toward myself — that was the same split I'd turned outward.
In this pursuit of raising my consciousness, the personality is not meant to be destroyed. It is meant to be seen, understood, and gradually harmonized. The upsets are the material on the path, not the obstacles. Without them, there would be nothing to transform. Mary Magdalene, in the gospel that bears her name, understood this: the spiritual path is not escape from our humanity but its transformation.
My Divine Self acts like a caring parent. It brings awareness and compassion to the Human Self. Noticing the split is a doorway. Seeing it clearly allows it to gradually heal and unify.
Seeing+presence →transformation
Judging →tightening+constriction+fragmentation
We are both Fully Human and Fully Divine, and it is a process to integrate this reality. Offering ourselves compassion, forgiveness, and unconditional love along the way is the way forward and the way now.
Perhaps the path is not becoming something other than human, but learning to love the human we are becoming.
Love is Stronger Than Death
A reflection one year after my mother’s passing
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
— Gospel of Matthew 5:4
Today marks one year since my mother died after six years of battling cancer. During the final month of her life, I happened to be reading Love Is Stronger Than Death by Cynthia Bourgeault. Looking back, I believe it was the book God placed in my hands to carry me through those days.
I still remember the day she died vividly—the priest who helped us both, the exact moment her soul left her body, and the strength I felt. God was enfolding me in His arms.
My mother was a strong woman, always moving through life with determination and zest. We had our moments, and many times we acknowledged how different we were, but she was always there for me. Always. She showed up for the people she cared about relentlessly. I would go on a work trip and come back to a cleaned bedroom, folded laundry, and my favorite meal. She expressed her love for others through gestures and gifts.
I remember her last Christmas. By then she was in hospice, hardly mobile, but she found a way to engage with the activities coordinator and create a handmade gift for me. It was touching and beautiful. This woman could hardly walk sometimes, yet she would still make cakes for others. We tried to find humor in the small moments—like her making us a coffee cake with cayenne pepper, or burning the pots while making stew because she completely forgot she was cooking.
My mother was very feminine. She insisted on putting makeup on and dressing up every time she went out. Even though the cancer and treatments took much of her energy and mental lucidity away, she still tried. I remember during the last month of her life, I brought a very close friend to visit her. She quickly reprimanded me for not telling her ahead of time, so she could dress up and fix herself. By then she wasn’t leaving the bed unassisted and was mostly sleeping and very confused, but this spark for life kept her alive longer than anyone expected.
She loved her plants and flowers, tending to them with the same care she gave to people. Somehow, they thrived under her hands and seemed to bloom in gratitude, her love returned to her in every leaf and petal.
She also loved photographs. I was surprised that she would ask people to take photos of her even when she was already very sick. Somehow summoning the energy to dress up, go outside, and pose for a photo enlivened her tremendously.
My mother was a hardworking woman. She believed that we must earn our keep, and she was always moving and contributing. When she moved to the United States to be close to my family, she worked odd jobs and sometimes had to walk for miles to get there. She hardly mentioned it. When she came home, she would do even more around the house.
When that became nearly impossible, she struggled deeply but still came up with the idea to make macramé. It had been a hobby of hers when she was younger, so while sitting in her chair in the living room, she revived that creative practice. By then she was heavily medicated. Some days were clearer than others, so I doubted she would remember how to make the knots. But not only did she remember, she made many pieces in different sizes and colors. Then she gave them away to anyone who showed up or helped her in any way. One day, we even had to bring a whole box to the oncology nurses and staff.
That’s who she was.
Death takes our loved ones away, but the memories, lessons, inspirations, and energetic imprints remain.
In the cakes she baked for others.
In the macramé knots she patiently tied and gave away.
In the quiet acts of care that filled a home without asking for recognition.
Love continues through what we have received.
And in this way, again and again, love proves itself stronger than death.
Mother, rest in peace. I love you.
Empty me. Fill me. Use me.
During this Lent season, I have been listening to Hallow, and this prayer returns again and again:
Empty me. Fill me. Use me.
Empty me
This is kenosis.
The Path of Via Negativa. The release of what does not serve. The release of control.
The surrender of image, righteousness, and self-protection.
It is a clearing.
I imagine a forest overgrown with brush- impassable, dense, tangled.
Slowly, intentionally, a path is cleared. Not hurriedly, but faithfully.
To be emptied is to lose what we cling to. Even what once comforted us.
Fill me.
This is the Via Positiva.
The courage to receive.
Receive love.
Receive wisdom.
Receive wonder.
I imagine opening my arms, wide beneath the Sun. Its burning rays not only warming but strengthening. Grace does not only soothe. It fortifies.
Use me.
This is Via Creativa.
Expression. Offering. Participation.
To give without bargaining, To serve without performing. To love without calculating return.
When surrender, reception, and expression become one movement, this is Via Transformativa.
Transformation is not just self-improvement. It is alignment.
Fear multiplies fear. Love multiplies love.
If we desire to change, we must learn how to empty, to receive, to give, not once, but in every cell of our being.
Growing Essence
It took a fall on the ice and a strained arm muscle to learn a few lessons. On Friday, I succumbed to a familiar feeling of being the independent, self-sufficient woman who can cope with all of life’s challenges alone. As usual, pride got in the way, along with some protective mechanisms. The victimhood role was sneaking in, and I recognized it immediately. That space felt familiar, even comforting, more so than opening up and asking for support.
On Saturday, I didn’t have a choice. I was physically hurt and needed help with even dressing. God humbled me.
Essence can only grow in pristine environments, where we don’t lie to others, but even more importantly, where we don’t lie to ourselves. By pretending to be someone we are not, by concealing our inner battles when they are begging to be shared, we fall into the embrace of False Personality. There, movement upward and sideways is restricted. We wind up kicking and screaming within our own cages, with no sight of an exit.
I don’t remember ever being truly taught the meaning of lying. Yes, the slogans of “Don’t lie” were plenty, but did I ever understand the full scope of it? The focus was always on not lying to others, less so on not lying to myself. False Personality is a “continual self-lying, continual pretense, and continual self-hypnotism.” Essence can only grow in truth, and the worst form of lying is pretending. This raises a question I continue to sit with: do I truly know what constitutes “truth”?
In Logion 6 of the Gospel of Thomas, it states:
“His disciples questioned him and said to him, `Do you want us to fast? How shall we pray? Shall we give alms? What diet shall we observe?’
Jesus said, ‘Do not lie, and do not do what you hate, for all things are plain in the sight of heaven. For nothing hidden will not become manifest, and nothing covered will remain without being uncovered.’”
Back to my story: on Friday, I fell into a habitual state of pretending, justified by pride and other self-reasons. It felt manipulative and unkind, yet I remained in it. Later that day, I attended a scheduled Wisdom Circle, where I was nudged to reflect on the message from Jesus. The leader gently stated what I needed to hear, reminding me that God meets us where we are and that His care is personal. I heard the message, agreed with it, but didn’t apply it in real life.
Then, life brought me to my knees. At least, I had a physical reason to ask for help and open my arms to receiving.
What I learned is that if I truly desire my Being to grow and thrive, I must leave behind all masks, games, and distorted narratives. I must fully step into my Authenticity. It is safe to be seen. It is safe to receive. It is a strength to be humble. As Abba Poemen says, “Do not give your heart to that which does not satisfy your heart.”
On Being Right
Once having made the decision to observe myself, I have mostly recently noticed that many times when I feel strongly about something, I need to explain myself and be right. I know it is okay to feel potently about subjects, but I definitely would like to improve the reactionary behaviors and the tendencies to justify myself, so as usual, I am diving into this well.
What I sense is that this habit stems from a deep-rooted closeness with unworthiness. Somewhere and somehow I was hurt when I wasn’t heard or wasn’t seen. Back then, maybe, I didn’t have the words to clearly express myself and on a lot of occasions I was too shy, or self-evaluating and judging how I would sound or be perceived. What started as feeling unseen resulted in self- deprecation.
I learned that in order to be respected, I had to prove my value with words, with justifications, with rationale about my thinking. I had to demonstrate my worth. Small “I”s can only do small things.
When peace is on the line, convincing others of your point is costly. Why go to that length? It is another occasion of leaking your energy and solidifying the facade of the house. This tendency originates from the faulty assumption that we need external validation. We have to wear our gowns of deceit to show this world we exist and that our beingness has weight.
This inability to welcome other perspectives on themes I feel passionate about is showing me that some of my “I”s are quite inflexible, stubborn, and needy. What is the antidote to this smallness? I feel it is grace. It is groundedness. It is embracing myself without hesitation. It is realizing that freedom lies in inner peace.
How do I get there? By noticing these parts and meeting them with love, until they no longer need to hold their old roles. It is being generous with myself and others and allowing room for forgiveness, compassion, and understanding. It is bidding adieu to arrogance and saying hello to humility. Humility here is not shrinking. It’s standing so firmly in Being that agreement becomes optional. So I go….
Why Real Intimacy Requires a Real Person
Intimacy is often imagined as the erosion of boundaries, a merging that promises closeness at the cost of individuality. But this assumption belongs to an undeveloped self, one that relies on separation to maintain coherence. Where personhood is thin, intimacy feels dangerous; where it is inflated, intimacy becomes performative. Real intimacy, by contrast, requires a self that is sufficiently formed to remain present without defense and open without collapse.
A real person is not one who has perfected identity, but one who has acquired gravity—an inner coherence born of lived experience, conscious suffering, and the digestion of instinctual life. Such a person no longer needs to protect a central narrative in order to exist. Boundaries become flexible rather than rigid, permeable rather than porous. Contact can deepen without possession, and difference can remain without threat.
Intimacy at this level is not fusion but interpenetration. Two persons meet not by dissolving into one another, but by allowing their fields of presence to overlap. What is exchanged is not reassurance or completion, but substance. In this way, intimacy does not diminish personhood; it completes it. Only a real person can afford to be truly close—because nothing essential is at risk.
In the Spirit of Love
The move toward “loving everyone” is often framed as spiritual maturity, but without a corresponding Second (Denying) Force it risks becoming unincarnated—wide but weightless. The pair relationship, at its best, is not about exclusivity or possession but about containment: the finitude that generates heat, resistance, and consequence. It is the vessel in which eros is slowed enough to be digested, where jealousy, tenderness, boredom, and desire become raw material for transformation rather than enactment. Universal love may express the First Force, but without the alembic of form it cannot descend into being. The pair is not the destination; it is the crucible.
Trogoautoegocrat
Trogoautoegocrat is a term used by G. I. Gurdjieff to describe a universe sustained by reciprocal feeding: everything lives by consuming and being consumed. Nothing exists in isolation. Human beings, too, participate in this economy of energy—emotionally, relationally, spiritually—often without noticing how and where their life-force circulates. The question is not whether we feed and are fed, but whether what we live is digested into something real. This reflection explores how love, when held with discernment, containment, and time, can become a counterentropic force—one that consolidates being rather than dispersing it.
Containment as Love
Containment is often misunderstood as withholding, repression, or fear of intimacy. In reality, containment is one of love’s most mature expressions. It is the capacity to hold energy, emotional, erotic, spiritual, without discharging it prematurely, exploiting it, or requiring it to resolve itself through another.
Where love lacks containment, it seeks release. It wants intensity, reassurance, fusion, or transcendence. Where love has containment, it can stay. It can wait. It can endure ambiguity without collapsing into fantasy or demand.
Containment is not the absence of eros; it is eros given a vessel. It allows desire to deepen rather than scatter, to clarify rather than intoxicate. Contained love does not rush toward consummation but submits itself to time, form, and discernment.
In a trogoautoegocratic universe, containment determines whether energy is digested into being or dissipated as reaction. Uncontained love feeds identities, dramas, and states. Contained love feeds presence, responsibility, and gravity. The difference is not moral but ontological: one produces repetition, the other produces realness.
Containment always increases responsibility. It requires restraint, fidelity to practice, and willingness to bear the tension of not-knowing. It also protects the beloved, human or divine, from being used as a stabilizer for what has not yet been consolidated within oneself.
To love with containment is to refuse to make another the guarantor of one’s being. It is to allow relationship to emerge from fullness rather than lack, from groundedness rather than hunger. Such love may appear quieter, even less dramatic, but it carries weight. Gravity is its signature.
This is not love diminished, but love matured: love that can remain without consuming, awaken without destabilizing, and give without dispersing what is most essential.
Intensity Is Not Intimacy
Intensity is often mistaken for intimacy because it feels alive. It generates heat, immediacy, and a sense of significance. But intensity alone does not create closeness; it creates activation. Intimacy, by contrast, is not defined by charge but by contact.
Intensity accelerates. It seeks height, fusion, revelation, or release. It thrives on novelty and emotional amplitude. Intimacy slows things down. It requires time, continuity, and the willingness to remain present when nothing dramatic is happening.
Where intensity dominates, boundaries blur. One is pulled toward disclosure, consummation, or meaning before there is sufficient ground to hold it. The result may feel profound, but it is often unstable. Intensity amplifies experience; intimacy integrates it.
In relationships, intensity can create the illusion of depth without the substance of mutual presence. Two people may feel powerfully affected by one another while remaining largely unknown to each other. What is shared is energy, not being.
Intimacy grows through repeated, ordinary contact: showing up, listening without urgency, honoring limits, bearing disappointment, and staying when excitement fades. It is forged less by what is revealed than by what is reliably held.
Intensity feeds hunger. Intimacy feeds trust. One excites the nervous system; the other stabilizes the self. Without intimacy, intensity eventually exhausts itself or seeks escalation. Without intensity, intimacy may grow quietly, but it endures.
To confuse intensity with intimacy is to mistake arousal for love. To discern between them is not to renounce passion, but to place it in service of something more durable. Intimacy does not eliminate intensity; it gives it a home.
This distinction is not moral but ontological. Intensity circulates energy. Intimacy consolidates being. Only the latter makes relationship a place where something real can grow.
Why Love That Lasts Feels Less Dramatic
Love that lasts rarely announces itself with spectacle. It does not rely on urgency, volatility, or continual affirmation to prove its reality. Instead, it settles. It takes on weight. And because it no longer needs to convince, it can appear quieter—sometimes even disappointingly so to those trained to equate drama with depth.
Drama is fueled by instability. It thrives on uncertainty, heightened emotion, and rapid shifts between closeness and distance. These fluctuations stimulate the nervous system and create the impression that something significant is happening. But what is often happening is not growth of being, but circulation of energy.
Enduring love works differently. As trust accumulates, less energy is required to maintain connection. There is less need for performance, reassurance, or escalation. The relationship becomes a place one can rest rather than a place one must continually activate. What diminishes is not love, but noise.
This quieting can be misinterpreted as loss of passion or aliveness. In reality, it marks a transfer of intensity from the surface to the core. Love no longer needs to dramatize itself because it is no longer fragile. It has taken root.
Love that lasts also demands more of us. Without the propulsion of drama, we are left with responsibility, fidelity, and the slow work of showing up as we are. There is no heightened state to hide in, no emotional surge to substitute for presence. What remains is contact—real, imperfect, and ongoing.
Such love may feel less dramatic because it no longer feeds on hunger. It is sustained by choice, attention, and care. Its vitality is not borrowed from excitement but generated from within stability.
This does not mean enduring love is without intensity. It means intensity has been metabolized. What once flared now warms. What once dazzled now illuminates. The fire has not gone out; it has learned how to stay.
In a culture trained to chase stimulation, this kind of love can be overlooked. Yet it is precisely here that something real is being made.
To live fully human and fully divine is not to escape the conditions of our humanity, but to remain within them long enough for love to do its quiet work. Love that lasts teaches this not through intensity, but through fidelity—through attention given patiently over time. As drama recedes, something subtler emerges: a deeper inhabitation of the body, a steadier presence in relationship, a widening capacity to hold both desire and restraint. Divinity is no longer sought elsewhere or projected onto another, but gradually revealed from within the fabric of ordinary life. What feels less dramatic is often more real, as love—faithfully sustained—becomes the means by which being itself is formed.
The Velveteen Rabbit
I was reminded of the old children’s story The Velveteen Rabbit.
The rabbit did not start by being “real,” but became real gradually because somebody loved him for a long, long time.
What it looks like when a relationship of love produces being:
You become more whole, not more dependent.
It does not replace missing parts; it integrates what was already there but fragmented.
You are more functional because of it.
Your capacity for restraint increases.
It always expands responsibility.
You become less special and more solid.
Gravity is a sign of being.
What if, instead of hoping for a beloved to love us so diligently that they make us “real,” we pour that same quality of love into ourselves—patiently, faithfully—until our own being grows?
This does not negate relational love; it matures it, freeing love from the burden of having to make us real.
Love that produces being does not intoxicate; it consolidates.
Artiste Manqué
I have been applying for jobs for the last four months and the rejections and “no” responses were the only correspondence I was receiving. Needless to say, it was demotivating. Many times, I would feverishly apply and imagine myself in these places, only to lose interest at some point and pause. This process forced me to reflect a lot and search for meaning. In coaching and alone, I healed through many upsets, although I just realized what was truly missing in my healing. What was reflected in my reality was a sense of not feeling valued and appreciated. The feeling of being invisible and unimportant was coming to the forefront. With the nudge of a coach, I addressed appreciation toward myself this past weekend, and the more I felt into it, the more I could clearly see it.
The word “appreciation” comes from the Latin root appretiāre, which means “to set a price to” or “to value.”
So, originally appreciation had a commercial or evaluative sense (“to set a price on”), but over time it evolved into a relational and emotional one — “to recognize the worth, beauty, or goodness” of someone or something.
In other words, the word’s journey mirrors a shift from measuring value → to feeling value.
If we look at the etymology again, appreciation comes from ad (“toward”) + pretium (“price, value”). Literally, it means “to move toward value.” So when I speak of a lack of appreciation of myself, I am naming a distance from my own inherent worth — a kind of inward turning away from pretium, from my own value.
This inner movement (or absence of it) can subtly shape the outer world. When I don’t move toward my own value, others, such as potential employers, often mirror that back — not out of malice, but as part of the energetic field of perception and resonance.
It’s not about “blaming myself” for others’ responses, but about seeing how self-appreciation is the root note that others unconsciously tune to. When you reclaim the act of valuing yourself, you restore the natural circulation of appreciation — the inward and outward flow of seeing, honoring, and being seen.
If appreciation means moving toward value, then my current exploration invites the question:
What has “value” meant for me so far — especially in my professional life?
For many of us, value has been unconsciously equated with performance, recognition, or usefulness to others. We come to believe our worth is conditional — proven through achievement or external validation. That’s the “price” part of pretium: our inner system learns to appraise itself like a commodity, not a soul.
But true appreciation — both inner and outer — emerges when we begin to shift from conditional worth to inherent worth. This shift changes not only how you see yourself but also how the world perceives and receives you.
The artiste manqué — the “failed” or unrealized artist — embodies precisely the tension between inherent worth and conditional worth.
The artist manqué lives under the illusion that their worth depends on expression fulfilled — that if the work isn’t completed, shown, or celebrated, something essential is missing in them.
But inherent worth says:
“The divine impulse itself — the yearning to create — is already sacred. The form it takes, or fails to take, does not define me.”
The ache of the artist manqué comes from identifying worth with manifestation, rather than with being.
It is the pain of measuring the infinite by what becomes visible.
That yearning to create — to bring forth beauty, meaning, or truth — is not wrong.
It’s holy energy. But its completion isn’t what grants worth; it’s what reveals worth.
When you remember your inherent worth, creation becomes play, not proof. Expression becomes prayer, not performance.
Then, even when the art is unfinished, even when silence replaces form, you are whole — because the creative fire itself is God moving through you.
The artist manqué says, “I am not enough because I have not made enough.”
The artist awake says, “My worth is unshaken; creation is my joy, not my justification.”
I have been moving toward fully embodying the artist awake and stepping into my inherent worth by paying attention to the language I use to undermine myself and consciously reshaping it to reflect my value. I am learning to live from that place —
to speak to myself with reverence, to soften the language that dims my light, and to choose words that mirror my true worth. It is a work in progress, but I am already seeing the results— a gentle unlearning of self-doubt and a remembering of grace.
Yet even now, I can feel the shift like morning light returning after a long night.
And you, Dear One, will you offer some love and appreciation to yourself and step tenderly toward the beauty of your own value?
The Heart of God
It is a sleepless night, and I feel called to dip my heart in the heart of God.
Being a fashion enthusiast, I often receive boutique designs. One of them — a white shirt embroidered with a hot red heart, spilling dark yellow rays — lingered in me long after I decided not to buy it. It felt like a micro version of God’s heart.
It is known we carry our grief in the solar plexus chakra. Grief is the first movement — the downward force that breaks open our control. When we allow it, a reconciling energy arises: compassion. Out of the heaviness of fire comes the softness of water. The soul begins to turn toward others.
Compassion, in Aramaic, means womb — we birth our compassion in the sacral chakra, where we begin to open toward others, to the pulse of intimacy and emotion. Compassion is the alchemy that turns feeling into love. It moves through the womb of creation, washing away judgment, until only tenderness remains. In that tenderness, the heart remembers what it has always known.
What is stored in the heart? Of course, Love.
And if God = Love, then we can experience this love only when we accept God’s invitation to be loved.
It is a consent.
It is a surrender.
It is an emptying out.
That requires courage.
The word courage comes from the French coeur — of the heart.
To step into our courage, we must be willing to have a connection with our heart and with God.
That requires trust.
Trust originates in the root chakra. It is the basic foundation for everything — the ground of safety, stability, and belonging.
The solar plexus, the center of will and personal power, is the bridge between the heart and the root.
The Word of God — or our purest creative expression — arises in the throat chakra. Here the soul begins to speak itself.
Once the Word becomes clear and aligned, consciousness opens into Vision (The Third Eye) — seeing as God sees, perceiving unity beneath duality. This is the center of wisdom.
And at the crown chakra, the journey completes — or rather, dissolves.
It is union, transcendence, and return to silence:
the unbroken circle,
where God breathes you,
and you breathe God.
Beloved Source,
teach me to trust the ground beneath me,
to open my heart without fear,
to speak only what Love would say through me.
Let my body be Your temple,
my breath Your word,
my life Your quiet song.
On a second note, I ordered the shirt with the heart. Who can resist?!
Acceptance
Since I departed from the university and arrived in Bulgaria, I have explored many different timelines. One where I am employed by a non-profit organization; one where I am a creative entrepreneur; one where I go back to what I know in the university environment; and one where I am completely lost and not knowing. The most recent one was focused heavily on applying to university positions in the international education sector. I ventured out of the Midwest and stretched to the East and West Coast, to places that felt prominent and adventurous. I had a couple of hopeful moments that kept me in a state of alive suspense for a few days, but ultimately it ended before it started.
The first opportunity emailed me to ask for my confirmation regarding the salary range. My reaction to it was a red flag (I immediately began envisioning working in an office 9-5, moving through paperwork and staring at a computer mindlessly) that I quickly buried deep within myself. The second one had me spinning in excitement with the signs I was receiving and the emotional support my kids offered. They were rooting for this potentiality, intrigued by the allure of the location.
These two slight glimmers quickly evaporated, and I realized that no matter how much I modify my resume or masterfully craft each cover letter to appeal to each Hiring Committee, the Universe does not see my path in that direction— or perhaps, by applying to prestigious universities, I was seeking validation and overall comfort. Although I realize the limited ceiling of opportunity and growth, the duties feel familiar and the salary appears good enough to support my lifestyle.
The entrepreneurship path was uncertain in terms of finances and direction, so every time I explored it, I quickly negotiated myself out of it. In all the timelines, I experienced some kind of fear. Fear of failure, fear of being an impostor, and fear of scarcity in one— and fears of stagnancy and not complete fulfillment in another.
In the quiet of contemplation, I see that accepting myself requires a creative obedience to the heart. I need to stop following the ego’s need for control and validation— not by retreating into passivity or waiting for a sign but by falling into active surrender. That means treating my heart as an altar and saying “yes” to its subtle nudges before the mind explains them away. It means acting without guarantee; letting beauty guide me; trusting that true alignment is productivity; and allowing the mystery.
To move forward, I had to examine the etymology of the word “acceptance”.
It stems from the latin word accipere which means “to take toward oneself. It implies willingness. It carries a tone of cooperation and humility. In Early Christian tradition, monks and mystics used it to express the soul’s consent to divine will. It was an act of active participation in God’s unfolding. To “accept God’s will” meant not to give up one’s agency but to align it with the Divine flow.
Though the centuries the word morphed into a more external meaning— to accept a proposal, contract, or an invitation. By the 19th century, Emerson and later Jung revived the inner essence of the word: “To accept oneself is to cease resisting one’s own being.” Today, in depth psychology and mindfulness, acceptance has returned to its ancient root meaning: to take toward oneself. Acceptance is the bridge between ego control and divine cooperation. It is opening the inner home’s door. It is the courageous hospitality of the soul— receiving with presence rather than resisting with fear.
This brings me back to the fears lurking around me. I was resisting every timeline with fear of one kind or another. A quote by Einstein whispered in my ear early this morning, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” It spoke to me of my behavioral repetitions. And another one by him, “We can’t solve problems by using the same level of consciousness and same kind of thinking we used when we created them.” This one spoke to me of energetic evolution which might look like this:
Replacing fear of failure with curiosity about growth
Replacing the scarcity mindset with the remembrance that my ideas flow from an Infinite Source
Replacing self-doubt with the simple prayer, “Use me, Lord, as a vessel of your beauty and wisdom” and the remembrance that I am Divine.
I have to accept my Divinity and take toward myself by following the thread not because I know where it ends, but because I trust the Weaver. I choose that willingly and wholeheartedly.
What do you choose?
On Starting
I have and continue to struggle with making myself visible. I keep returning to this familiar block, yet the breakthrough always seems out of reach- especially when it comes to revealing my inner world and my spiritual seeking. God has sent me countless messages gently guiding me to just start, but I always found an excuse why now is not the right time. Last night, my sleep was restless, and I woke up with a deep desire to confront this fear. When I opened Substack, the familiar pattern pressed loudly for me to give in. Then I heard a quiet whisper: “Turn to the Saints…” My body stirred with energy, and I knew- this is the path to follow.
I regularly read the stories of the saints and find the female ones particularly resonant. They are a beautiful inspiration for a virtuous, pure life, one “drenched in God”. After doing some research, I selected the saints whose mission is devoted to new beginnings, overcoming the fear of being seen, creativity, and Divine purpose:
Saint Hildegard of Bingen- the Voice of Divine Creativity
A mystic, artist, composer, and healer, she spent much of her early life in silence until she heard a call to speak and create. She feared being seen, yet obeyed the divine impulse to share her insights. She blesses those who step forward as instruments of light.
“I am the feather on the breath of God.”
Saint Francis of Assisi- Trust in Divine Purpose
He left privilege behind to live in alignment with truth and love. His presence encourages releasing fear of judgment and stepping into an authentic life.
“Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.”
Saint Mary Magdalene- Devotion and Visibility
She is the epitome of sacred embodiment. In her life, she moves from shadow to radiance. She supports those who are called to show their inner truth openly, to lead with love and authenticity, and to stand in their light without apology.
“She turned toward the light and was not the same.”
Saint Brigid of Kildare- New Creation
She is the patroness of creative people and those tending to sacred spaces. Her energy supports the birthing of new creative projects and communities.
“The fire of Brigid is the fire of inspiration and the courage to begin.”
Saint Varvara- Integrity
She remained true to her values even under the pressure of her father, demonstrating unwavering courage in the face of danger. Her energy supports when fear of judgement arises- the courage to share your truth even if it feels risky.
“She stood firm in the light of her own truth, and fear could not silence her.”
I felt I needed to call on all these saints collectively, so I did- and here I am. My heart is full of gratitude and humility. They faced extreme circumstances yet remained true to their True Selves. I honor their paths and choose to follow in their footsteps.